Blood Rose
by ClassicLassitudeCacoethes
Summary: 30 May: For France, it was all part of a cycle of solitude, abstinence and self-control on one day, and the exact opposite on the next 364. All of this was for Jeanne. Except, England had to walk in and break his carefully constructed cycle - a cycle that was created partially due to him and what he did in 1431. Things will never be the same.


**Title**: Blood Rose  
**Pairing/Characters**: Past France/Jeanne D' Arc, Eventual France/England

**Disclaimer: **Unfortunately (for me), I do not own Hetalia.

**A/N: **Considering that both Lassitude and Cacoethes have posted something, I suppose it's now my turn. This all started off with a prompt from Lassitude (which I shall reveal when the time comes) and everything spiralled off from there. I hope you enjoy reading this!

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_30 May_: The one day Francis refused to see anyone else; let alone bed another. He would not lose himself in sexual promiscuity or drown his sorrows in liqueur. He would not taint himself any further past what he already was. He would not disrespect his memory of her, and all that he'd felt for her – even if all of that seemed like it belonged to another lifetime, another man. A man who had looked at the world through rose-tinted glasses, only to have it all cruelly shattered in his face.

Since then, he hadn't been able to bring himself to care. He had tried, at first, but it had all turned out to be futile. How sad was it that he, the nation of love, was unable to truly love? At least, not unless he lost himself in his fantasies and pretended… (That was cheating, wasn't it?)

He imagined that she stood next to him, lightly caressing his face and pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. She'd smile and say, "I'm proud of who you are today," and he'd believe her. He would, even though some part of him knew that the truth was probably very much the opposite (and that she wouldn't be there at all). But it was a beautiful lie to believe. So, just for today, he believed. After all, this day, every year, was the only one he pretended that he had some vestige of purity left in him after all the centuries that had passed and everything that he'd done.

Everything for his angel: Jeanne.

It was all part of a cycle of solitude, abstinence and self-control on one day, and the exact opposite on the next 364. It was something that he _needed_ to keep going on.

Of course, fate would have it that this cycle would be broken when the last person he wanted to see on this day appeared on his doorstep. He'd always thought the Gods took special delight in mocking him – this was just further proof.

_The first time:_

- England -

"What are you doing here, Angleterre?" France asked blankly._  
_

As Arthur stared at France's pale, unusually haggard face, he could not help but ponder that question himself. What on earth had possessed him that he had against all his sensibilities, decided to come? For goodness' sake, his presence would probably just make things worse – not that he had ever tried before. Or that he cared. The thought was laughable. He came simply because he was a gentleman, and gentlemen were responsible for things they had played a part in. Yes, that was it. There was no guilt or regret involved at all.

"I came to-" _check if you were fine, try to offer some long-due help or closure, _"to see you at your weakest." Arthur stumbled. He winced internally.

"In that case, you've accomplished your objective." France deadpanned as he began to slide the door close. "Actually, you did centuries ago."

Arthur stuck a foot out, reacting just in time to stop the door from slamming into his face. France merely turned back to him with an expressionless look. This was not the France that paraded around the world, flirting with just about everything with legs. The France Arthur met today was the one that hid behind the mask – or perhaps, it wasn't really a mask. He couldn't say for sure where the former ended and the latter began, but the fundamental truth was that there was a difference, and as a result of the unfortunate amount of time Arthur had spent with him when he was so, he could tell.

"It's rude to leave your guest standing at the doorstep." Arthur said, breaking the silence.

"Not when the guest is unwelcome." France replied.

"No – you bloody frog – I just – help – you need company." Arthur finished, turning red as he spoke. _Damn it._

"I do not." _Especially not from you. _The unspoken sentiment toward Arthur was obvious in the tense atmosphere, but he decided to ignore it.

"You do," He insisted, not caring how childish he sounded. The sooner he was done with this, the sooner he could go. Arthur pushed past France.

For a second, France looked as though he would put up a resistance. Arthur almost wished he did, instead of simply standing at the side and closing the door after him. A France that passed up the chance to grope or quarrel with him was just _wrong_. Not that he'd rather the alternative.

Arthur faltered as he entered France's sitting room, before deciding against sitting on the sofa. _Who knew what activities had taken place there?_ Instead, he leant against one of the few walls that remained uncovered by paintings or portraits. France himself sat down, looking everywhere but at him. Arthur couldn't believe he was doing this _willingly_.

"Hey. Frog." He tried half-heartedly. "France." He received no acknowledgement whatsoever. Was this worth it? He sighed with irritation. "_Francis_."

At the sound of his name, the man in question finally graced Arthur with his gaze. The words he was going to say died on his lips. He had been expecting barely pent-up anger or tears or _some sign of emotion that he could deal with. _Instead, he was greeted with _nothing_. This was France. A lifeless France was… So maybe Arthur was worried. Just a little.

"You're obviously not feeling well." He said.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious." France replied indifferently.

Arthur pulled at his hair. He knew that he'd hit France where it hurt with everything that happened with Joan, but that was just how things had always been between them; a game – or war – of hearts. Physical scars faded with time. Scars of the heart, on the other hand… They were far deeper and it took a lot more than time for closure.

He decided to get straight to the point. "You know perfectly well that hiding like what you've been doing doesn't work."

"Being hypocritical, are we?" France said in the same passive tone that (almost) grated on England's nerves more than his usual lewd one.

"I don't pretend nothing happened." He retorted with some exasperation.

"No. Neither do I. I merely choose not to make such a big deal of it." France tilted his head lightly to his left. "P_ardonnez-moi_ if I'd rather not get myself publicly drunk in a pub drowning my sorrows."

"I never asked you to. There are alternatives." Arthur bristled. Here he was, trying to _help_ his enemy, and what did he get in repayment from the git? Insults. Bloody lovely.

"_Oui_, but you, of all people, have no need to interfere in my affairs." France looked pointedly at the door, which Arthur ignored (again).

The civil, conversational way of doing it was obviously down the drain. Arthur crossed his arms."Stop acting as if I wronged you in some unforgivable manner. You've done your fair share!"

"And what would you be referring to? Amérique?" France asked languidly. "You aren't the only one who lost your colonies."

"It's different! You know what he meant to me. And don't act as if you had no part in this. You were _helping_ America!" Arthur said with rising irritation.

"And a fine man he turned out, didn't he? He is alive and well, and it would have happened anyway." France said calmly. Far too calmly…and he hated it even more that it was the truth. England resisted the urge to punch him right there and then.

"That is not the point. You know bloody well why I dreaded that day." _And you had no need to speed up the process. _Arthur gritted out. "At least you didn't have to fight someone you l-_cared _about."

"No, because it was _you_ who took _New France, _and almost all of them away before any occasion like that could happen." Was it his imagination, or had France's voice become a tad icier?

Arthur found it odd how relieved he felt at that moment. It was clear now which direction to go. Riling France…he had a feeling this was not going to be any problem. There was no one that pushed all his buttons down quite as well as France, and he dared reckon the opposite was true. Besides… he smiled grimly. This was familiar ground.

- _France -_

Francis tried to keep his mind as empty as possible as England raised one of his eyebrows at him from the other side of the room. _Breathe. Calm down. _Yet, quelling the traitorous memories that threatened to surface was a much harder feat than ever when _he looked at him like that._

"Touché," England paused, nonchalantly leaning back against the wall he had walked away from earlier. Something in his tone had changed. It reminded him of – Francis forced himself to calm down. _He could not allow himself to remember – to feel – show – _"I… consider that one of my finest accomplishments to date."

Francis stiffened. _Breathe. Think of flowers, roses, Jeanne- _He clenched his jaws, willing himself not to react again. _She's not gone. She's not gone. _

"Fine. You claim to care. Yet, you go around the world shamelessly shagging everyone. What does that say about your respect for her? _What would she have said?_" England said.

"Don't pretend to understand." Francis said in a low tone, fighting his impulse to explain himself. Chastity had never been his strong suit. He had done it for her, but after she left… He _needed_ to fill the empty void; _feel _some semblance of love. Sexual acts were the only time he could pretend – in his mind, at the very least. And he did care about her. That was the whole justification of today. England had_ no right_.

"I'm not pretending. I do. And what I do is still better than your way of doing it, no matter how you try to justify it." England sneered, his green eyes hard. "You're pathetic. You always hide. Take the easy way out."

Francis remained silent, closing his eyes in an attempt to calm his pounding heart. It was the wrong move. Almost immediately, an image of _her _appeared in his mind. _Her looking right at him, fear in her eyes - _

"So this is what irks you, hmm? Facing the truth that you're useless. You couldn't even protect yourself, let alone Canada-" His voice droned on. _Patronising. Contempt. Smugness. _

"-_Stop-" _Francis heard her screams in his head, but he couldn't do anything. _He – he couldn't._

"-Or your _Jeanne_… she was so young, wasn't she?" England _smirked._

"_Ta gueule!_" Francis snapped in anger.

That exact expression; that word Germany had: S_chadenfreude_. England had been gloating; laughing at his pain. _Just like now._ The unrivalled pain of having someone you loved being torn away from you in the most brutal, irreversible way ever. Watching her suffer – the fire – her wounds – tears – his or hers - screaming – blood – _his bloody laughter _–

_"Don't do this, England, I-I'm begging you. She's only a girl." _

_"Is that all she is to __you__?"_

_The icy feeling of failure, dread and desperation. _

_"Let me see her once more. Please."_

_So he watched from the distance – all the way up from the hill. He pretended she knew he was there – she must have heard his screams over hers. She must have._

_And then, the fire, the unrelenting flames, burning her up and out, just like how he had consumed her himself with his lack of control and restraint. He had failed her – __he had failed her by falling in love with her__. And she was paying the price. It shouldn't be her. It shouldn't. _

_He didn't care if the tears were freely streaming down his face, or if he was breaking down in front of __him__. He couldn't care – what was there to care about anymore? _

_"JEANNE!" _

_A smug sound of satisfaction from beside him._

"_JEANNE!"_

_A __smirk__. _

_He couldn't ignore it. All the desperation and fear and sadness immediately turned into blinding rage. He couldn't – didn't want to - think. He forgot who he was. He didn't care what __he__ was saying. He lurched forward onto him, not sure of anything except he wanted to hurt, maim, __kill__ England. He wanted to see the blood pouring down his chest; a giant gaping hole where his heart – if the monster even had one – he wanted to-_

"_Désolé."_

_Désolé? England apologising – England laughing at him - England in a suit – England under him - two Englands - _

Francis blinked as he came back to the present, taking in deep shuddering breaths. He couldn't remember when he had stood up, or how his hands had wrapped around England's neck with him pushed against the wall. All the _rage_ that had possessed him earlier faded away, leaving him drained, disoriented… yet strangely clear-headed. He stood still as he lowered his arms, staring into the emerald eyes that belonged to the person who had both triggered _and _pulled him from his memories. _The_ memories he tried not to think about, for the sake of his sanity.

…Why was it always so conflicting?

England cleared his throat and turned away, visibly uncomfortable with the strength of his gaze. There was a small bruise forming on the left of his neck – Francis registered with detachment as England stepped away from the wall he had been pushed against. He vaguely remembered images of himself coming onto England with a vengeance, laying blow after blow (at least, those that had connected) before attempting to strangle him.

A strange mix of satisfaction and horror filled him.

Francis blinked again, saying nothing as he surveyed the mounted paintings that had been knocked askew. It was clear that while England had defended himself, he had never once gone on the offense. Things would have been a lot messier and France would have felt the effects of England's attack on his body if he had. Instead, he had chosen to… Francis felt the beginnings of a headache coming on.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" Francis said hoarsely. He felt raw from reliving the memories he had selectively suppressed for so many years. _Jeanne. _Had he shouted? _Screamed?_

England gave a half-committal shrug, which Francis interpreted as a form of admittance.

"And you apologised." _In my language. _Francis thought, barely processing everything that had just transpired. Perhaps, he would wake up and realise that this was all a dream. His head was throbbing hard enough to believe that.

"I would never speak your language! Whatever you thought you heard was just your wishful thinking!" England said in an impressively indignant tone, although he needn't have bothered. The telltale flush on his face strongly suggested the opposite.

Even with the myriad of emotions he felt pulsing through him at today's events, Francis couldn't help but quirk a smile. That was the England he knew. He supposed that some things never changed. Yet…

"I-" Francis started resignedly. Jeanne mattered the most to him, but where they were right now on this – and everything else – was still the tip of the iceberg.

"Forget it." England interrupted with a challenging, yet serious look. "Not now."

They both knew what the other was referring to; they had centuries' worth of issues to… come to terms with. They had started today and perhaps they_ should_ continue, but _not now_ was certainly appealing. So, Francis nodded.

He was amazed at how fast his anger has ebbed at that one word, even if England wouldn't admit to it now. He watched as England smoothed down his clothes and neatened his hair. The… venting had helped considerably as well. He felt much better than he had for a long time.

"We're pretty dysfunctional, aren't we?" Francis laughed wryly as he attempted to lighten the mood, gesturing to the mess around them. _This was how it had been when they had been forced into marriage – _except they'd avoided each other most of the thankfully limited time.

"Speak for yourself." England said, although Francis noted he made no protest.

"I hope you know I'm not sorry for beating you up. You deserved it." Francis said.

"You call this getting beaten up? It's barely a scratch." England scoffed. He glanced down at his watch. "If we're done here, I'll be leaving now."

"All right." Francis said casually with some wry amusement, as if it was a usual occurrence for England to pop up at his house for a 15-minute confrontation, and then leave. "Are you sure you don't want a change of clothes, or a drink?"

England looked at him oddly as he began to make his way to the door. "I'm fine."

"As you wish," Francis paused, wondering if he should…"Arthur?"

"What?" England asked as he turned to look at him. If Francis addressing him by his human name surprised England, he was adept at concealing it.

Francis hesitated for a moment. "Thank you."

"Y-you're welcome." England muttered just before he left, slamming the door behind him.

He had a feeling that his 30 May rituals would never be the same; even if every other day followed the pattern it had for countless years past.

He _would_ damn England for ruining his preciously constructed way of life, but the changing dynamic they had, with its fundamental core of something he couldn't quite name, was yet another comforting, albeit ironic, constant.

He _could_ consider England the bane of his existence, but their lives were too intricately linked with each other's. Without England… would Jeanne have gone the same route? And if she had not, where would Francis be today?

He _should_ hate him for everything he had done to him, but he was no hypocrite – he knew that it took two hands to clap – and they'd had some of their moments as well. The memory from the year 1000; _today_… He just never thought England would be the first to apologise or that Francis would ever express any gratitude to him.

_So maybe, some things did change; but he would make sure that his love for Jeanne would never be lost, no matter what_ happened.

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**A/N: **Thanks for reading this! Please do review and tell me what you think :) It'll also do wonders in motivating me to write and post the next chapter - this is likely to be a 5 chapter story, if everything goes according to plan.


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